Gallia Divisa
by T Rocket
Summary: This is a story about Hetalia's France and his history, semi-serious, but at times seriously laughable. This is also my first foray into fictional non-fictitious fiction. Or something like that. Bon Appétit.
1. Boys of Summer

Title: _Gallia Divisa: I The Boys of Summer_  
Rating this chapter: PG  
Warning: Nothing of note, just strap on your Antiquity Goggles and mind the gap.  
Notes: Inspired by a piece from the Hetalia kink meme. Have fun picking who is who.

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Summer, Northern Gaul, Territory of the Belgae 100 BC

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Far below the clouds that painted occasional smears of white against the clear blue sky, a boy ran through the grasses that lined the water's edge. The sun kissed his skin and lighted his long, pale hair into a vivid gold. He was the only son of Argos, a young boy yet unnamed. He wondered perhaps if he would gain his soon. His mother had gained a second after all: Gaul.

Long ago, strange, violent men had come to their lands, swathed in red and the shine of metal, burbling in foreign tongue. They had given it to her.

They still came from time to time, led by a large, broad shouldered man who seemed to be built more like a horse than anything else, with his head crowned in dark and ugly curled hair. And unlike the taller, more graceful people the boy was familiar with, the foreign intruders were muscled and stocky and seemed bent only on conquering those that set foot in their path. Sadly stated, they were rather good at it.

That wasn't to say his own kinfolk were inept. Quite the contrary. The Gaul were warriors and the boy wore this distinction proudly. They were a mismatched people, divided off into tribes across their land, but they all held the way of the warrior.

Thinking of this, the youth smiled to himself, arms outstretched as he spun himself through the high grass, feeling is crumpled underfoot and brush against him through his breeches and belted tunic.

It was a beautiful day and though his mother had warned him to dress more warmly, he could not fully feel the chill in the air. *

'You are young.' His mother told him. 'You have not seen the summers and winters I have. There is a chill in the air.' It bothered her that he was not as in-tuned as she, but if concern had her heart, she did not let her son see it.

Dizzy from his spinning, the boy toppled back into the tall grass with a dull thump. He laughed until the world stopped turning around him, and lay spent, panting and giggling to himself as the sparse cloud cover passed over top him.

Laid out with the tall grass towers above his prone form, he wondered if today he would find someone to play with.

A girl lived in a nearby tribe he wished to see again. They had played a handful of times before and with each new meeting of theirs, his body grew warmer at the idea seeing her again.

Now it slowly returned to him, pinking his cheeks and tightening his chest. Perhaps one day they wold wed and help unite the land. He was certain that with the training his mother gave him, he would be a fine warrior as well, and what woman did not want a strong husband who could return from battle, bearing the heads of their enemies?

A low, deep sound woke him from his silent fantasy quickly.

His head shot up-only the crown on it visible in the swaying grasses.

Again, there it was. 'Plunk'.

Coming up onto hands and knees, he crawled forward and parted the last grasses on the bank and poked his head out.

"W-who goes there?" a small voice shrieked.

The boy blinked and scanned the opposite shoreline. It was hard to spot, but against the shorter grasses and larger rocks, there sat another person-far smaller than himself, wrapped in a big green cloak.

Again the voice called out. "Identify yourself!"

The boy just beamed and stepped out onto the shoreline. "-fellow Selt**?" he called, waving.

The cloaked lump jerked and waved a stick furiously in the boy's direction. "W-what do you know about the Celts?" it shouted back as it tossed a rock into the channel.

'Plunk'.

The question and gross accent were paid no heed. "They call us the Gaul. We're very strong! Who are you?" When he received no response, he paused and cocked his head to the side, as he watched the lump across the water and weighed his options. Against the lapping current of the water, half-beached on the pebbles of the shore, the boy had a small raft baking in the sun. Curious still, retrieved his raft and walked it out into the water. Breeches soaked to all the way to his thighs, he hopped aboard.

With his back turned to the lumpy cloak and back end sat squarely upon the raft, he kicked himself across the channel. "...perhaps you are ugly?" he chirped.

The lump jerked again and make a sound that the young boy could not fully make out.

He smiled all the wider, bemused with the reactions he received. "Are you a leper, then?"

The lump shrieked and hissed, "I am not!"

The boy laughed as he approached the opposite shore, "Then remove your hood! We are all brothers!"

Again, the cloak burst into a fit of noises, most of which, the boy noted, made its wearer sound more an animal than a man. "NO!" It shouted back, ruffled up.

The boy simply laughed.

"I-I can hear you over there! Stop laughing!" The cloak commanded. "I-I'll sic my big brothers on you! One of them paints himself blue and is really scary when he fights!"

Hearing not a single threat, as the raft ran aground, the boy climbed off and pulled it safely ashore. Further up, the cloak shook and murmured to itself as it backed up.

The cloak, obviously daunted, continued on, "H-he has hair like fire! And a temper like it too! He's really quick!"

"He sounds beautiful." The boy sauntered in, closing in on the lump, as shiver ran up his spine, mouth gone dry. Now technically in a foreign land, he wondered to himself if this was the sort of rush the men felt when they took new lands for themselves.

"And I would be honored to meet your brother." he continued. "I bet he would hold his ground and show his face instead of running away..."

The cloak bristled and stamped its small feet, still hidden by the long folds of its cover. "I'm not grown yet, so I'm not suppose to fight. I'm still small a-and I'm not running away-!" it snapped.

"Then show me your face."

"It's not something you need to know! Why do you care?" Caught in a backpedal, the lump tripped over the tail of his cloak and tumbled backward onto the rise of dirt from pebbled shore to earthen land.

On his back and cloak slightly displaced, it was easier to see more of the foreigner. They were certainly short-the boy knew that, but instead of an imp or even a sprite, he at least knew they were human now. Perhaps it was even one like himself or his mother.

"I want to see." he pressed as he lowered himself and crawled after the other-a certain slinkiness to his movement that was almost cat-like. "I am nearly a man, you know. Show me or I will take it myself."

"I know men, and you are barely one." The foreigner hissed, hackles raised. It began to scoot back against the grass, trying to put some space between the two of them.

The boy's grin just widened, the expression both playful and predatory. "My mother is teaching me to fight. I am going to become a brave warrior and bring home the heads of -all- my enemies." he said, licking his lips. "I will be an incredible man."

The cloaked foreigner trembled and stumbled over its cloak again, fallen back against the hard ground. "L-leave me alone!"

He could not, though. It was all a huge tease. The foreigner was too easy and too much fun to bait to consider stopping now.

"For a cloak that heavy, you must be cold. I am plenty warm. Hold yourself against me and let me see your face." The young boy had seen his fair share of seduction, though aptly, from the sidelines. Perhaps if he applied his own charms, the foreigner would see the appeal in listening. "I won't hurt you." he swore. "I promise it. Are you cold? Tell me."

Not completely sold, with the safety of a few arm lengths between them, the foreigner crossed its arms under the folds of the fabric and nodded slowly. "M-maybe a little."

"As a Selt, you should know we keep our promises..." the boy continued, voice smooth as honey.

It took a good deal of deliberation from the foreigner, but in the end, part of his will gave out. It was a slow movement, inch-by-inch and very wary, but at the promise of body heat from another who's people swore by their word brought the foreigner to the boy's side. "Just...because you promised." it stated, hands gripped at the sides of the hood, hesitating for a moment before he finally tipped it back.

As the boy had thought, the foreigner was another boy, though without a doubt, was younger than himself. The other had dreadfully short hair, but it was blond, and thus excusable...even if it was a horrible dirty shade of it.

Big green eyes blinked at the boy, lips turned downward into a worried frown "Happy now?"

There was only a brief respite after the ending of the foreigner's works as the boy looked him over, before he immediately keeled backward and burst into loud, squealing laughter.

"-y-your EYEBROWS! What happened to them to make them so overrun? They're s-so big!" Arms clasped around his middle, he was helpless to his own amusement. "You look so funny!"

The boy received a low warning growl in return as the foreigner bristled up again, hands clenched. "Shut up!" The foreigner brushed his bangs to try and cover them, and finally resorted to covering his head again with the hood. "They've always been like that. " the foreigner huffed, his severe frown nearly hidden by the overhang and shadow of his hood.

The boy just sputtered and cackled louder, rolling in the grass. "Y-you look like you have caterpillars on your face! They don't even move when you're angry! I saw! They just wiggle uselessly!"

Even if the thought hadn't crossed the foreigner's mind, there was no way the two of them were going to be friends now. Shuffled back into his cloak, he gave a swift kick to the boy's the side and growled, "Stop laughing at me! It's not that funny!"

The boy made a choked sound as he was struck and stilled some, but snorted and would up laughing all the same and he struggled to stand again.

"O-of course! It's no laughing matter at all! Some people enjoy lots of hair! Perhaps your male lovers will overlook it someday or m-maybe-" he keened, ready to burst again, "-your wife will be blind!" And there he went, once again bursting into laughter.

The tiny ball of blond hair snarled and tackled the boy, going to bite, kick and claw like a dog who had been poked too many times with a sick. The bushy-brows ran in his family, doubling the humiliation as he took it as an insult to his family as well.

On the other side, though Argos's son had yet to introduce him to weapons proper, the boy had been given enough martial training to guarantee his safety when out wandering. Thus, when attacked, though he could not help but struggle through the smaller boy's flurry of blows. However, he quickly regained his control and overpowered the stranger. Straddled over the foreigner's chest, he pinned their wrists down in the dirt.

Dusty and even a bit bloody, the boy grinned and tried his hardest to keep the other down. "You're pretty good. But not good enough. Maybe someday-" he leaned in and licked up the curve of the other's ear. "-I'll invade you properly."

The foreigner howled in displeasure, a noise more feral than human. "You'll never invade. My family is far too strong! G-get off of me!" His struggle now seemed more an attempt to get anyway more then fight back. Panicked and red to his ears, he bucked and hissed, "I'll curse you if you don't get off of me!"

"So I'll just curse you back!" The boy beamed, finally allowing the other some slack as he rolled off of him. "Seltic druids are some of the strongest! You can't beat us."

"My brothers have those too." The tiny one huffed as he stood up and dusted off his clothes. "My family's magic is the strongest in the world!" It was a fact true only to the foreigner. Though perhaps in the future-

"If you're all Selts-" The boy straightened up as well, but didn't bother to dust himself off. "-then we all have the same magic." The strange little boy from the islands...he was so...

"You're cute." He decided as patted the foreigner's head. "I think I'd like to try my hand at you when I'm older. Even if you do have funny eyebrows and dumb short hair."

The foreigner wrinkled his nose and scoffed as he took a swipe at the other's head for petting him. "Yes, we're all Celtic, just different tribes. Well, except me and the brother who I keep losing..." He stumbled for a moment in thought, but was fast to right himself again, fighting to keep on subject, "But you're never going to touch me like that ever. I won't allow it."

"Well that's the thing about invading." The boy said matter-of-factly, hands set low on his hips. "If I win, you have to listen. But don't worry. I plan to get plenty of practice before then! I want to be an amazing warrior and to wonderful lover. When I'm a man, I'll be able to do it with almost anyone I want to!"

His words received a very unimpressed look. "We've been invaded before. We fought them off. You won't win and you'll never have any of us."

Now, the boy knew quiet well that the foreigner was lying through his crooked little teeth. The little girl from the North told him once of her own jaunt over to the island and of her easy victory there. He only stored the thought away instead, and opted to keep the ammo to himself for a later date.

"I don't know them." The boy conceded easily. "But I know you." Bad logic. "Why would I want to invade them? I just want you. Surely they won't miss one brother. Even one as shrimply as you. Perhaps they'll even thank me! We're very strong and I could take care of you!"

"You don't know me!" The foreigner stamped his feet again, hollering. "I'm a Briton! And my family is strong and would never allow anything to happen to me. -and they take care of me just fine!"

Which was precisely why, the boy noted to himself again, the little Northern girl had such an easy time pressing in. Of course.

"You're stubborn." the boy smiled warmly, continuing on despite the other's tirade. "Headstrong. I like it. I really want to rule over you some day. I'll be kind and do it well, okay? Just wait for me."

A tiny fist balled up and struck fast, sucker-punching the boy in the gut. "You will never rule over me!" Such a stubborn thing...he was going to get in trouble of of these days if he wasn't careful.

But while the punch took the boy down and splashing back into the water of the channel, it only started him laughing again through the pain. That sealed it really. As the little foreigner dashed off into the brush, the boy returned to his raft and hurried home to his mother to announce to her that while he found the little Northern girl charming, she did not excite him like this. In a foreign land across the water, he'd found his future bride.

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"Mother?"

His voice called out flatly, void of any resonance or echo. The world was neither light nor dark, cast instead in shades of dulled gray. The boy felt heavy-headed through the fog, but trudged forward despite the fear rising up in his stomach.

The air felt thick around him, like he'd fallen into a bog, struggling to slog his way out. His limbs felt like lead, body stiff and slow moving.

"Mother-?" he called out again, the barest of inflections steeped into his voice. He could muster no more, though he tried desperately.

"Mother, where are y-!" The ground, gray and cold, caught against his feet and the boy toppled, the world cast to black as he fought to catch the breath knocked from his chest.

"M-moth-"

His chest seized and his back splintered in pain as the world spun in an agonizingly slow twist. Somewhere above him, male voices thundered and a deep, alien laugh shook the boy to his bones.

"Here," the voice said, so frightfully familiar and yet so far away. It was like drowning and hearing someone call from a far-away shore. The constriction in his chest multiplied tenfold and the boy gasped for air, hands clawing for purchase against anything he could grip onto. The floor held no hold for him, so he wretched his arms around, trying to seek out what hurt him so.

When his small hands grasped and pulled hard against worn leather and warm skin, he craned his head back as far as it would go. And while his long hair fell in his eyes, the silhouette about him was unmistakable. The crushing weight to belong to none other than the Southern Republic himself, hideous curled hair and all.

"S-stop-" the boy keened as he twisted under the heel of the man's foot, his back singing out in pain. The Republic continued unhindered.

"Here is where we shall build our empire." Rome explained, his smile booming and sounding for miles, whereas the boy could barely crack over a whisper as he sobbed under the duress of the man's weight.

There was another though-one Rome spoke to whom the boy could not place...

The stranger nodded in silence, leaving the boy to squint and stare. The newcomer was devilishly handsome and the boy felt his cheeks redden and he sobbed in shame over the heat he felt flood his body.

Rome laughed, "What do you think, general? Will this do?"

"It will."

The boy woke up with a jerk, wailing and could not find sleep for the rest of the night.

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* Around 100 BC, the world was coming off of a years-long peak heatwave, and dipping into the chilly. Also, protective mum is protective.

** I felt like taking a small jab here toward the future of pronunciation, and the British kelt-Celt vs selt-Celt argument. In any case, I was amused. From here on out, this phonetic argument will be used between characters. It this is too off-kilter, feel free to lynch me. History in fanfiction is serious business.


	2. Mothers

Title: _Gallia Divisa: II Mothers_  
Rating this chapter: PG  
Warning: Nothing of note, just strap on your Antiquity Goggles and mind the gap.  
Notes: Inspired by a piece on the Hetalia kink meme. Have fun picking who is who.

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Late Fall, Central Gaul, Territory of the Arverni tribe 70BC

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"I have been thinking about him." the boy announced suddenly to his mother, his tone firm and intent. Around them the world was far from silent, their kinsman hurrying to harvest and tend to their animals. The winter would come colder than ever, and all strove to meet it head on and prepared.

For this moment though, a mother and son took refuge in a simple act together, catching their breath from the season.

Argos stopped midstroke and frowned, grip tightening on the comb in her hand, "What have I told you, my son?" She tucked the comb under her belt and began to unwind another of her son's many braids. "That man is my concern."

The boy huffed and shifted where he sat, his head drooping some on his shoulders. Ready to have none of that, his mother wrapped a small set of his braids around her fingers and gave a sharp tug. He straightened up again quickly.

"But they are my people too, mother." he insisted, unable to give more than the barest of nods, his posture kept rigid as to not disrupt his mother from the task of brushing his hair. Of all the time they spent in one another's company, it was one of his favorite ways to pass the time.

He continued, "And he keeps pushing us back. He has no respect. We used to be neighbors with Helvetia, but then-"

"Helvetia is a rude young man and you should remember that." She said, curt in her reminder. Though usually never so stern with her son, the subject of their conversation had worn on her nerves for too many years now. "Rome," she pressed, tapping the crown of his head with the comb, teeth up. "Is a concern far larger than anything else, but-"

"But..." the boy sighed, shoulders slumping again. He was all too used to this lecture.

She resumed her combing and watched her son's body grow visibly slacker. Only a skilled set of hands could make the boy so relaxed-he was so tender-headed. One had to treat him carefully. "But for now, we have other things to worry about. After all-" By this time, he could match her word for word as she spoke, but the boy remained quiet. It would not do to invoke her anger. After all, he loved and respected his mother. The boy figured he give her time enough to finish a handful of her henning arguments.

He peered around, looking to her when he realized she had stopped. "-after all?"

She smiled. He was listening. Argos picked through the knots left behind in her son's long hair with the comb and slowly, tenderly began to style his hair back to appropriate perfection again.

"You know, you have been talking about that man an awful lot lately." She struck up in a different direction as she knotted off the end of a braid, tying a bead to the tail of it. "Is there any reason?"

"I am just worried." her son huffed and nodded. He took an obscene joy in hearing the bead clink and jangle against the torc at his neck. "He is a bully and I just want to be prepared if he comes for battle!"

"And all this talk of battle?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

The boy beamed proudly, "I want to hurry so I can prove myself as a man and finally be able to make love to all of the beautiful men here."

"My son," she sighed, smiling as she rolled her eyes, "Ever ambitious."

"And to protect you too, of course." he finished, sounding proud of himself. "Can we continue my weapons training tomorrow?"

"Of course, my son." Argos chuckled. She leaned in over the boy and kissed his forehead, earning an even brighter smile. "Of course."

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Winter, Egypt A few months later

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On the other end of what nearly was an empire, Rome paced briskly outside his lover's chambers and wrung his hands together.

"This is very unfair. I should be at her side." He complained aloud, though there was no one to listen to him. All of her lady Egypt's female servants remained inside with her. All of the men had been dismissed from her chambers, along with unceremonious discharge of the Republic himself.

So now Rome paced, wary and bundled up in his own anxiety. Really, he shouldn't have been there. Greece would have known of his exodus across the Mediterranean by now. Whenever he returned home, he'd be in for a whallop for ditching out on the care of their own child to go and check in on the babe of another woman. And on that note, Rome was certain that the only reasons his lady loves tolerated each others' existences was so they could in turn gang up on the Republic whenever they gods deemed in was their time to bleed.

"Really..." he sighed quietly, words spoken to reassure no one but himself. "The child would have not moved an inch whether or not I was there. He would have slept the entire time. Right?"

With no one around to agree, he did it himself, complimenting his logic with a swift and committed nod. Patience however, had never been the man's strong suit. He waited regardless, but soon gave back into pacing.

He had not been at for over ten minutes when a loud, anguished cry rose up from with the bed chambers. Having not learned any better from his first expulsion, Rome charged, ready to be at his lover's side.

He hardly made it a step in when one of Egypt's lady servants stopped him dead in his track with a rather harsh slap across his face. While Rome reeled in the momentary shock, she pushed him back out.

Stunned, he touched his reddened cheek and winced as he was closed back out again. The Republic would wait hours more before his pretense would be permitted.

When the sun had finally set and the palace around them darkened, spare for the occasional flicker of candlelight, Rome was summoned.

"Let him come..." He heard her repeat as a servant, new from the one who had struck him, led him in. Rome waited until the room had emptied before doing more, feigning humility.

"She slapped me..." Rome frowned as he finally wandered in, stating the obvious.

"You poor thing." her sarcasm dripped. I'll have her punished immediately."

Rome blinked, "Would you really?"

"Of course not." she snapped, voice quieting as Rome neared. The object of his attentions lay back reclined on a soft mattress, moved in just for the occasion, with her long hair tied loosely back and tanned skin still flushed and damp. Even in exhaustion, Rome noted, she still glowed with radiance.

"Now be quiet. You'll wake him..." she shushed, softly cooing to the bundle in her arms. Rome gave in to a face-splitting grin and moved in closer, much to the blunt disdain of the new mother.

"Keep your distance. I do not want you to be the first man by child lays his eyes upon. He will be as good as cursed then."

Pulled to her chest, a baby lay swaddled up in a blanket, the tiny thing so close to nodding off. However, like his stubborn mother, the infant seemed intent on staying awake and observing the world and those in it. He blinked, eyes bleary and Rome leaned in, giving the child a scrutinizing look.

There was nary a curly hair on the child's head. Roman sunk in a silent defeat. Egypt knew the look and straightened up as best her fatigue would allow her, looking most smug.

"Of course it is not your child. For as much as I lay with you, do you really think I would sully my body to be taken with your seed?" She cut him off before he could so much as open his mouth. "Your presence was never required here. Go home."

"But I bring news from the Senate."

The babe squirmed and whined, which earned a rather severe and pointed glare for Rome. "I do not want it."

"Are you certain?" he grinned further and leaned over again to steal a better glimpse at her baby.

Though sorely tempted to call in her guards, Egypt let the man's curiosity bubble undaunted. Given his chance, Rome crouched next to the mattress and babbled on in quiet gibberish to the baby, who regarded the man with an unimpressed squint.

"You have no news from your Senate." Egypt tucked back a loose wisp of hair, tone flat. "You came to bother my son and I, possibly even the Pharoah's Queen as well, seeing that women with child obviously pique your fancy."

Word on the Pharoah's wife was news to Rome. "She is with-"

"Of course she is." Egypt bit down her frustration and focused on her fussing baby, easing her unclothed breast toward his tiny pink lips, encouraging him to suckle. "If you would only pay attention to-"

Only Rome wasn't.

"I get next, right?"

Enraged, she threw a sandal at his head.


	3. Black Smoke

Title: _Gallia Divisa: III Black Smoke_  
Rating this chapter: PG-13  
Warning: Violence, otherwise just strap on your Antiquity Goggles and mind the gap.  
Notes: Inspired by a piece on the Hetalia kink meme. Have fun picking who is who.

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March 28th, 58 BC Central Gaul, Territory of the Arverni tribe

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The son of Argos had grown in the past few years, though not by nearly enough to stand in height against a full-grown man. In the years since his trip across the channel he had grown into a capable fighter, by both hand and sword.

"Mother-"

Not to be interrupted, his mother stood locked in an aggressive stance, her sword raised, "Stand your ground, or I will come at you again." she smiled, eyes bright with the pride that her son had nearly taken her on her last pass.

But where he should have been watching his mother, his blue eyes cast themselves toward the Southeast. "No, mother. Look." He did not smile. On the horizon, a thick black smoke plumed and billowed above the tree line, staining the sky like it had been splashed with the darkest pitch.

"Mother..." The boy, rather the young man falter as he dared let his thoughts wander to what might be at the end of the trailing smoke. He feared not for what caused it, but for the damage it might have inflicted in its aftermath. Anything could start a fire. But once lit, the possibilities were grim.

"H-Helvetia lives that way, doesn't he? He was supposed to come meet us, wasn't he?" His sword lowered, the pointed tip dragging in the dirt at his feet. "He was going to move, wasn't he? What's going on?" Despite the way the youth's voice shook, his grip tightened against the hilt of his blade, his jaw squared and teeth grit.

His heart skipped a fast, frantic beat against the inside of his chest, breath catching as he watched the tower of black catch on the invisible wind, drug slowly across the blue and white sky, ruining it further. "Mother, we have to go and see and-"

"Inside, my son." Argos sheathed her sword with practiced ease and took him by the shoulder. "We need to tell the others before we act brashly."

Not swain, her son shook his head. The beads that tied the ends of his braids clacked together. "But Helvetia, mother. What if-"

"_Now_, my son."

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Northern Gaul, Territory of the Belgae 57BC

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For a moment, the only thing that existed was a sharp gasp inward and the flinching mix of pain and horror as a grip was lost against the hilt of a sword-the weapon flying out of reach.

The world stopped turning for no one and thus, when the girl who carried the name of 'Belgae' hit the wet and muddy earth, no one in the chaos around them ceased their fighting to offer a batted eye.

Beyond the two of them, the banks of the River Aisne bloated with rainwater, roaring as it threatened to spill over.* The heat of summer choked the air with humidity, and between the pressure of the thick night air and the pouring rain, she felt it a wonder they had not all drowned.

"We've done nothing against you!" she cried above the din, glaring pointedly at her attacker. Word had reached her people quickly when Helvetia fell to the Romans, but no one truly expected they would come this far North. "You have no reason to be here!"

Standing above her, a silhouette illuminated with a flash of lightning. Rome stood unfazed by the pounding of the rain around them or the crash of sword again shield around them. He returned her words with smug satisfaction,

"When someone accosts your family, would you not raise your fist to them?" he asked and a crash of thunder sounded, his expression lit against the darkness.

Belgae, while strong and brash, knew she would be no match for the man above her. While young, she was not without experience. But that made her fear even moreso. Rome had pitted himself against she and her people. They could fight, this was true. But for how long? Her small statue made her quick, but not quick enough. Even if she rose, he would find her again, just as he had Helvitia.

Her eyes narrowed and stomach twisted at sight of the Republic's lips, drawn back in a triumphant grin. Her people had already suffered at the hands of his armies, and at this rate...

"Answer me!" his voice boomed like the thunder above and she trembled with the reverberations, swearing to herself that it was the heavy rain that made her body tremble. Admitting anything less would have been too great a shame to carry.

"Y-your allies are made only out of convenience!" she snapped back, snarling at the man. Though unarmed from their struggle and now effectively cornered in the mud, she would not yield. The rain soaked to the bone and blood streaked her hair and colored her clothes, but refused the man another inch. "They-"

Stalwart, she didn't flinch when he ran his gladius into the ground where her head lay, slicing her cheek. Blood beaded and spilt, only to wash away in the onslaught of rain. Her eyes stung from the falling rain, but she refused to even blink away from the Republic.

"They were attacked by you." Rome hissed and bent low over her body, his grip on his blade still sound. "And as I recall, you attacked came at us first."

"Because you invaded us!" she spat, seething, calloused hands balled into fists. You killed Helvetia!" Belgae shook as fat tears spilled uselessly down her cheeks.

"If _only_." Rome licked his lips, eyes dark. It was a sight that made her shudder in revulsion. This was a man notorious for forcing his hand, among other things, upon those he conquered. The ease of which he could break her, now...

It was a terrifying thought.

"Now, if you are done, barbarian. I have more important things do to," She shifted to rise up, but his motion came within a breath's span: he pulled his gladius from the earth-mud sent spattered against his armor, and then thrust forward, tearing it into her gut. "-like finishing what I've started."

He left his blade there like that, instead drawing his spatha. He held it for a moment as he reacquainted himself with the weight of the longer weapon.

Her world silent, Belgae choked and gasped for breath as she turned under the piercing gladius, trapped like a butterfly pinned to a board. "P-please," she mouthed, "No..."

Rome turned to his general and called to his attention. The man, with dark hair trimmed short and eyes black as the night that surrounded them made haste. The two exchanged brief words. And while Belgae could not hear them, their voices were not required to understand the gravity of the situation. It would be their final strike against her people.

"Please! No!" Her voice cracked as she screamed to Rome's general. The man offered his little in terms of attention-a sideways glance, was afforded, nothing more. "I-" The thunder above drowned out the sounds of her broken sobs, "-I surrender. Just please...l-leave us alone."

Rome smiled and turned to his commander.

The general nodded, "We finish here. Then, to Brittania."

.

.

* Haha, again with the weather. In 60-50BC, things were hot and wet as all hell.

** I've consolidated the conquest of the Belgae to the battle upon the Aisne River, simply for dramatic purposes. It went on a good while longer, but those guys put up an amazing fight! And don't worry, we'll see more of Bel later.


End file.
